Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (13 page)

"Most decidedly. As would I. Dominer has harmed you enough,
Sir Simon.
I will
not be a party to your being
made ill again."

She spoke in her usual soft fashion, but there was a firm set
to her chin, and he realized in some surprise that beneath her shyness
dwelt a resolute spirit. "If you would care for it," she suggested, "I
should instead be most pleased to show you over the house and the
conservatory."

He agreed only after extracting a promise that, if he was
obedient today, she would ride with him tomorrow. Then, he proffered
his left arm, Stephanie smiled and lightly rested her hand upon it, and
they commenced the tour.

By the end of the week Kent was beginning to exhaust his
nurses with his reviving energy. Always sweet-natured and easy to
manage, he nonetheless contrived to be up and walking did they for an
instant relax their vigilance and was frequently discovered kneeling
among the cushions of the window bay, gazing out across the frosty
gardens.

Returning to the sickroom after luncheon one cold, gray
afternoon, Euphemia was astounded to find Hawkhurst sprawled in an
armchair, long booted legs outthrust and crossed at the ankles, chin
resting upon interlaced fingers as he frowned at the small patient.
Kent, absorbed by something, was sitting up in bed. He threw her a
quick, loving smile, then bent to his task once more. Intrigued,
Euphemia trod closer. "What is it?"

Hawkhurst pulled his lean form erect and shrugged a bored,
"Crayons, and a picture to copy. Come."

She glanced at him interrogatively.

"You are pale and hagged," he imparted with cool candour. "And
I wish to speak with you. I shall take you for a drive in the curricle."

'Thank you. But—no." How swift the narrowing of the eyes, the
upward toss of the head, the haughty droop of the eyelids. Her
confrontations with him had been few these past eight days, for she had
usually been too busy with the child to go downstairs to dine, and when
she had put in an appearance, Hawkhurst had been off somewhere,
consorting with his ragtag friends, she supposed. But whatever he was,
he had saved their lives and offered a most generous hospitality. "If I
may," she said, "I would prefer to ride. Have you a suitable mount for
a lady, sir?"

"By the time you are changed, your steed will await you. And,"
he added dryly, "probably be exhausted by the wait!"

She responded to that challenge, of course, and with Ellie's
assistance changed into her habit and in a very short time took up her
fur-lined pelisse and gloves and hurried to the stairs. Halfway down
she paused as a roar of rage sounded from the music room. To her
astonishment, a very large and ugly dog, somewhere between a bloodhound
and a wolf, shot into the hall, sent rugs flying as it scrabbled wildly
on the polished floors, and floundered with total ungainliness into the
dining room. Hawkhurst, face flushed, raced into view. "Where in the
devil did that miserable brute go?" he snarled.

"Brute… ?" echoed Euphemia innocently, pulling on one of her
gloves.

"The Gains mongrel!" He marched to the library and flung the
door wide. "I'll have its ears, by God!"

"It must be very well trained."

He darted a black scowl at her.

"To be able to unlatch a closed door," she smiled.

"That worthless flea-carrier, madam," he observed acidly,
"has, for some ridiculous reason, a predilection for lumbering five
miles across my preserves and creating havoc wherever it lays its
clumsy feet. It tears down young trees, uproots plants and shrubs,
jumps into the ornamental water and devours all the confounded
goldfish! And having performed these acts of vandalism, it adds insult
to injury by trailing its mud, slime, and vermin across my rugs! I
warned
Gains! And by heaven, I shall—"

A loud crash sounded from the dining room. With a triumphant
cry, he sprinted across the hall. Her heart in her mouth, Euphemia
followed. A shout, a thud, and she jumped aside in the nick of time as
The Flea-Carrier, tongue lolling, ears back, tail high, panted past and
gamboled disastrously towards the kitchen. A muffled groan made
Euphemia's nerves jump. She hurried into the dining room. Hawkhurst lay
sprawled on his back on the floor. With a little gasp of fear, she sped
to kneel beside him. He looked dazed and oddly youthful and tried to
raise his head, but it fell back, and he gasped out, "Damnable… brute.
Ran between my… legs."

"Are you hurt?" she asked, battling the urge to laugh.

" 'How…' " he quoted faintly, " 'are the mighty… fallen… in
the midst of—' "

It was too much. She broke into a peal of laughter. Lying
there, the breath knocked out of him, Hawkhurst wheezed along with her.
He came to one elbow, grinning up into her merry face, until he saw
beyond her a small crowd of servants with an awed disbelief on every
countenance. "Are you all blind as well as deaf?" he demanded, well
knowing what had brought about those amazed expressions. "That blasted
hound of the Gains has been at its depredations again! Get it the devil
off our grounds!"

The doorway cleared in a flash. Hawkhurst clambered to his
feet and, taking Euphemia's elbow, assisted her to rise. Her eyes
slipped past him. The exquisite Han Dynasty vase from the corner
display cabinet lay in fragments on the floor. Following her horrified
gaze, Hawkhurst groaned and muttered something under his breath. The
oath was not quite inaudible, but she could scarcely blame him.

"My goodness!" Euphemia patted the glossy neck of the big
black horse admiringly. "He is magnificent! Wherever did you get him?"

"Gift from a friend," said Hawkhurst. "He's called Sarabande,
and you'd do well not to stroke him when Manners ain't holding his
head. A bit inclined to be playful."

"So I see." She stepped back as the black danced, his eyes
rolling to her. "My, but he's full of spirit. How I should love to try
him."

"He's not broke to side saddle, ma'am. Nor ever likely to be,
for I need no more lives on my conscience!" His eyes were grim
suddenly. "Now, may I throw you up!"

She rested her booted foot in his cupped hands, and he tossed
her easily into the saddle, then mounted Sarabande and led the way from
the yard at a sedate trot. Once in the open the black strained and
fidgeted, fighting his iron hand. Hawkhurst's jaw set, and Euphemia
smothered a smile and murmured, "My, how invigorating this is."

He slanted a suspicious glance at her, saw the dimple beside
her mouth, and chuckled. "If you will pardon me a moment, I'll take
some of the edges off…"

He was away, leaning forward in the saddle, the great horse
stretching out in a thundering gallop. Euphemia looked after him
appreciatively. He had a splendid seat. She suspected, however, that it
would take more than a moment to cool the fire in that spirited animal,
and it had been a long time since she'd enjoyed a gallop. She kinked
her heels home, and the mare's ears pricked up eagerly.

Thus it was that Garret Hawkhurst, setting Sarabande at a low
wall which concealed the stream beyond it, landed neatly on the far
side, allowed the black to gallop a short distance, and, swinging back,
was in time to witness Miss Buchanan soar over wall and stream and
canter towards him. "Oh, well done!" he exclaimed impulsively, but as
she came up with him, frowned, "And very foolish!"

"Yes," admitted Euphemia, flushed and breathless. "I'd no idea
the stream was beyond. Fortunately the mare did. How is she called?"

"Fiddle," he said rudely and, seeing her brows arch, explained
mischievously, "Because after a while she tends to become diverted by
such mundane items as grass and shrubs."

She laughed and drew her hood a little closer. Heavy clouds
were gathering, and together was the smell of snow in the air. She
wondered suddenly if they would reach Meadow Abbey in time for
Christmas—exactly two weeks away.

'Too cold for you, ma'am?" asked Hawkhurst.

"Not as cold as I would have been in your curricle, thank you,
sir."

"Oh, I'd have bundled you up. And I begin to think you'd have
been safer."

"Indeed?" she said indignantly. "I'll have you know that—" But
she saw his lips twitch and finished in a milder tone. "I collect you
would have driven at a snail's pace."

"But, of course."

"From what I have heard, Mr. Hawkhurst—"

"I make no doubt of what you have heard!" His eyes pure ice
now, he went on, "If you will turn about, ma'am—"

"I shall not," she intervened coolly. "And, as I was about to
say, I have heard you—ride, Mr. Hawkhurst. On the night you went for
Dr. Archer, I was quite sure you would be borne home, slain."

A slow flush darkened his cheeks as he met her level gaze. "My
apologies. I thought you referred to another matter. However, I was
three parts drunk that night and probably rode with very little of
common sense."

"And I suppose you will say you were three parts drunk when
you came to our rescue." His gloved hand made a short gesture of
dismissal, but she went on, "It is quite useless, dear sir. I have
every intention to thank you for all you have done. And—"

"Your brother has thanked me. It only half killed him, I
gather. And now, if you will kindly turn about, Miss Buchanan…"

He had spoken roughly. She sensed that he was trying to put
her off-stride and, wondering why, protested, "But we only just came
out!"

Hawkhurst's movement was very fast. Before she had a chance to
resist, he gripped the bridle, and her mare was turned. Unaccustomed to
such high-handed methods, her eyes flashed fire.

He shrugged. "You have been here nigh two weeks and not yet
properly seen the exterior of my home."

She looked up eagerly and was speechless. They had been riding
steadily uphill and, from the elevation whereon they now sat their
horses, were able to view Dominer, spread magnificently on its own hill
below them. The red brick mansion, a uniform three storeys, was built
in a wide semicircle, the north and south wings reaching backward, and
the ground floor widening at the centre of the house, front and rear,
to accommodate the full circle of the Great Hall. The white columns of
a portico dignified this central curve, and the enormous double doors
and all the wood trim were also white. The terrace was edged by a low
balustrade, opening to steps that led up to the entrance. Extensive
pleasure gardens were threaded by paved walks, dotted with benches and
statuary, and shaded by tastefully placed trees and shrubs. The
flowerbeds were bare now, the ornamental water, both front and rear,
edged with ice, and the fountains not in operation, but Euphemia could
picture it all in the springtime, and murmured softly, "I had heard how
very lovely it was."

He made no answer, and, glancing up, she found him watching
her. She was seldom discomfited, but something about that piercing
scrutiny set her pulse to fluttering. The frozen breath of the wind
ruffled the fur that edged her hood, but her shiver was not for that
chill touch.

"Thank you," he said, slightly frowning.

She was flustered and, attempting to conceal it, looked about
her and remarked, "Oh, what a very pretty bridge that is! May we ride
that way?"

"We may not. The bridge is being rebuilt and is unsafe." He
saw her brows lift a little at his gruff tone and went on, "Come now,
it's too cold to sit here and since you enjoy a gallop…"

He led the way at a spanking pace, up the hill and across a
stretch of turf, avoiding the icy paths. The mare was taxed to the
utmost, but Euphemia was sure Hawkhurst had held the big black in, and
the stallion was scarcely blowing when he was reined back to a canter,
and then to a walk.

"You ride very well," Hawkhurst acknowledged. "Learned in
Spain, did you? I heard you were right up with the best of 'em when
they forded the rivers over there."

She glanced at him in some surprise, wondering how much else
he knew of her. "Yes. But you did not bring me out here to talk of
Spain, did you?"

He smiled rather sardonically at this direct approach and
guided her down a slope, then followed the winding route of a stream.
Sarabande snorted and sidled at the rustle of a patch of reeds and
shied when a flock of fieldfares soared raucously upward a short
distance away, but, ignoring these idiosyncrasies, Hawkhurst said
mildly, "My sister has taken a great liking to you, ma'am."

Euphemia, who had been admiring his superb horsemanship,
thought, Aha! So that's it! and replied, "A liking I return, I do
assure you. She is the dearest girl and has been of so much help with
poor little Kent. Indeed, it seems that each time I turn around there
is something else for which I must thank you."

She had hoped that this would irritate him away from the
subject, and sure enough one of his hands lifted in that autocratic
gesture of impatience. "Nonsense. I am only sorry you had so terrifying
an experience," his eyes turned to her thoughtfully, "while on my land."

Euphemia answered his unspoken question at once. "We were
trespassing, I know. Dominer is featured in my guidebook, you see, and,
since we would pass through Down Buttery on our way to Bath, I begged
my brother to let us detour just a little way so that we might actually
see it."

"I'll warrant you had to beg hard," he said cynically.
"Buchanan's no admirer of architecture. Nor of me."

"To the contrary. He told me Dominer was magnificent." A small
frown came into her eyes. "And you must think him a sad case if you
fancy him ungrateful for all you have done. The way you went down that
cliff after the boy was—"

"Damned foolish," he intervened curtly and, seeing her mouth
opening, added a hurried, "Speaking of the boy, may I ask why he is
called only Kent? Is he a foundling?"

"Very much so. I found him in my sister's chimney." He
directed a curious glance at her, and she recounted the sad story. By
the time she finished, he looked very grim indeed. "Poor little devil,"
he muttered. "No wonder he's mute. Probably scared half to death. It
happens to some of our men who are in the worst of the fighting, you
know. I've a good friend, in fact, who may never be able to speak
again."